Dad's Presence

Now I listen to Dad better than ever.

I tell people, only half in jest, that my father and I have never gotten along as well as we have in the past two years.

I listen to him now. I take his advice. I mull over his words. And I never interrupt.

When he was alive, he used to tell me all the time how I interrupted him. "My darling daughter, you're doing it again," he'd say. "I wasn't finished talking, and you're stepping all over my words." He believed this because he viewed comments such as, "No way!" "Really?" and "She did not!" as interruptions, while I perceived them as necessary interjections.

He also said that I did not pay enough attention to him. For example, he insisted that I not do the dishes or cook or water the plants or fold clothes while talking on the phone. "I can't hear you if you're making a racket," he said.

"But, Dad," I objected. "How can folding clothes make a racket? Besides, you called me!"

"My point, exactly. I called and you should stop what you're doing and sit down and talk to me."

I didn't stop. All the years he was alive and arguing with me, I simply argued back.

Two years ago, when he came home from Morton Hospital, I bought a fitted white sheet and a down comforter and two pillows for the bedroom his wife, Louise, had prepared for him, for the bed in which he would die.

I walked through the parking lot on that beautiful, late September day, the sun bright and warm, my arms heavy with bags, and I imagined my father young and my mother pregnant, shopping together for me - for small sheets and soft blankets and a tiny pillow. Carrying them back to my grandmother's where they lived, walking up the steps, making up the crib and standing back and anticipating their lives, so many years stretched out in front of them, so many wonderful dreams.

They would be hard years. And they wouldn't stretch as far as they hoped. But the mercy, the blessing, is they didn't know that then.

From beginning to end is always too short a time.

As I watched my father die, I thought about this, how you can never anticipate life or death, and that what looks like a long life when you're young seems so much shorter when seen through a rearview mirror.

From beginning to end is always too short a time.

"Life doesn't end. It just changes."

My father isn't on the phone giving me a hard time anymore, saying, "When are you coming to visit?" and "You didn't call yesterday."

"Do you know that no one else in the whole world can call you daughter?"

But I hear him still. "Call Louise," he'll say, and when I do she'll say, "Hey, I was just thinking of you."

Because she feels him near her, too.

"Don't you even think about cutting the grass in sandals. Go put on sneakers like I taught you."

"If you put it back where it belongs now, you won't have to search for it later."

"Slow down." "Don't worry." "Trust me. It's not important."

He's gentler now. But still firm. And still instructing. "Get gas. Don't park the car on empty. There could be an emergency."

He's not a ghost like in "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir." I don't see him. And I don't really hear him, either. Not with my ears.

But his words are real, not just a loop of his favorite sayings repeating themselves in my mind. He is current.

And his presence is not mere imagination.

Like rain that falls on the earth, or snow that blankets it, my father was present, visible, real to the touch. And now he's not.

But like rain and snow, like everything that was, he hasn't vanished. He's transformed. I don't understand what he is now. But I know that he is.

I feel him looking over my shoulder. I sense him beside me.

I went to visit his brother the other day. He and his wife were in town for a short visit, and George never stopped talking. But I didn't interrupt, even when he said, "I'm talking too much, I know."

I expected some praise for this but all my father said on the drive home was, "My brother really is a character." And I said to the air, to the sky, to him, "I know, Dad. He's a lot like you."

Visitor Comments: 6

Reading this article made me realize that the help I'd begged for from my deceased father had been given to me. I'm so grateful.

(5)
Anonymous,
October 15, 2007 7:57 AM

Sweet sentiment.

It's the rare individual that really respects and appreciates the time we have to spend with someone else, especially a parent, spouse or child. We never miss what we have until it is gone. It's just human nature, though I believe it can be overcome.

(4)
Jimmy Fink,
October 15, 2007 4:33 AM

THANKS

My dad also died recently and I can understand what you are saying. Funny this morning when awaking and visiting with my Heavenly Father, I said if HE wanted to use my father to speak to me I would accept it. Shalom, Jim

(3)
Shells,
October 14, 2007 2:35 PM

thank YOU Beverly

I call our Heavenly Father, Dad so I found this article particularly beautiful. Thank you for sharing your thoughts like this and I hope others to can identify with it. shalom Shells x

(2)
Marc,
October 14, 2007 11:47 AM

My stories the same, except it's my mom

I argued regularily with my mother, we were close but also we had a difficult relationship at the same time.

After she died, I still hear her words, and I listen to her far more than I did when she was alive.

This article truly reminds me of how I listen to my mother now more than ever!

Thank you for affirming my sanity!

(1)
Katerina Katapodi,
October 14, 2007 11:03 AM

Comments

I loved very much my Dad when he was alive..I think he was ''a living God'' for me, so much meant to me, what he used to say many times..I see that he had beem absolutely correct and had meant, as well as still meaning a lot to me!...

I just got married and have an important question: Can we eat rice on Passover? My wife grew up eating it, and I did not. Is this just a matter of family tradition?

The Aish Rabbi Replies:

The Torah instructs a Jew not to eat (or even possess) chametz all seven days of Passover (Exodus 13:3). "Chametz" is defined as any of the five grains (wheat, spelt, barley, oats, and rye) that came into contact with water for more than 18 minutes. Chametz is a serious Torah prohibition, and for that reason we take extra protective measures on Passover to prevent any mistakes.

Hence the category of food called "kitniyot" (sometimes referred to generically as "legumes"). This includes rice, corn, soy beans, string beans, peas, lentils, peanuts, mustard, sesame seeds and poppy seeds. Even though kitniyot cannot technically become chametz, Ashkenazi Jews do not eat them on Passover. Why?

Products of kitniyot often appear like chametz products. For example, it can be hard to distinguish between rice flour (kitniyot) and wheat flour (chametz). Also, chametz grains may become inadvertently mixed together with kitniyot. Therefore, to prevent confusion, all kitniyot were prohibited.

In Jewish law, there is one important distinction between chametz and kitniyot. During Passover, it is forbidden to even have chametz in one's possession (hence the custom of "selling chametz"). Whereas it is permitted to own kitniyot during Passover and even to use it - not for eating - but for things like baby powder which contains cornstarch. Similarly, someone who is sick is allowed to take medicine containing kitniyot.

What about derivatives of kitniyot - e.g. corn oil, peanut oil, etc? This is a difference of opinion. Many will use kitniyot-based oils on Passover, while others are strict and only use olive or walnut oil.

Finally, there is one product called "quinoa" (pronounced "ken-wah" or "kin-o-ah") that is permitted on Passover even for Ashkenazim. Although it resembles a grain, it is technically a grass, and was never included in the prohibition against kitniyot. It is prepared like rice and has a very high protein content. (It's excellent in "cholent" stew!) In the United States and elsewhere, mainstream kosher supervision agencies certify it "Kosher for Passover" -- look for the label.

Interestingly, the Sefardi Jewish community does not have a prohibition against kitniyot. This creates the strange situation, for example, where one family could be eating rice on Passover - when their neighbors will not. So am I going to guess here that you are Ashkenazi and your wife is Sefardi. Am I right?

Yahrtzeit of Rabbi Moses ben Nachman (1194-1270), known as Nachmanides, and by the acronym of his name, Ramban. Born in Spain, he was a physician by trade, but was best-known for authoring brilliant commentaries on the Bible, Talmud, and philosophy. In 1263, King James of Spain authorized a disputation (religious debate) between Nachmanides and a Jewish convert to Christianity, Pablo Christiani. Nachmanides reluctantly agreed to take part, only after being assured by the king that he would have full freedom of expression. Nachmanides won the debate, which earned the king's respect and a prize of 300 gold coins. But this incensed the Church: Nachmanides was charged with blasphemy and he was forced to flee Spain. So at age 72, Nachmanides moved to Jerusalem. He was struck by the desolation in the Holy City -- there were so few Jews that he could not even find a minyan to pray. Nachmanides immediately set about rebuilding the Jewish community. The Ramban Synagogue stands today in Jerusalem's Old City, a living testimony to his efforts.

It's easy to be intimidated by mean people. See through their mask. Underneath is an insecure and unhappy person. They are alienated from others because they are alienated from themselves.

Have compassion for them. Not pity, not condemning, not fear, but compassion. Feel for their suffering. Identify with their core humanity. You might be able to influence them for the good. You might not. Either way your compassion frees you from their destructiveness. And if you would like to help them change, compassion gives you a chance to succeed.

It is the nature of a person to be influenced by his fellows and comrades (Rambam, Hil. De'os 6:1).

We can never escape the influence of our environment. Our life-style impacts upon us and, as if by osmosis, penetrates our skin and becomes part of us.

Our environment today is thoroughly computerized. Computer intelligence is no longer a science-fiction fantasy, but an everyday occurrence. Some computers can even carry out complete interviews. The computer asks questions, receives answers, interprets these answers, and uses its newly acquired information to ask new questions.

Still, while computers may be able to think, they cannot feel. The uniqueness of human beings is therefore no longer in their intellect, but in their emotions.

We must be extremely careful not to allow ourselves to become human computers that are devoid of feelings. Our culture is in danger of losing this essential aspect of humanity, remaining only with intellect. Because we communicate so much with unfeeling computers, we are in danger of becoming disconnected from our own feelings and oblivious to the feelings of others.

As we check in at our jobs, and the computer on our desk greets us with, "Good morning, Mr. Smith. Today is Wednesday, and here is the agenda for today," let us remember that this machine may indeed be brilliant, but it cannot laugh or cry. It cannot be happy if we succeed, or sad if we fail.

Today I shall...

try to remain a human being in every way - by keeping in touch with my own feelings and being sensitive to the feelings of others.

With stories and insights,
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